


a hand like yours to take mine

by counterheist



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Fade to Black, Katsudon Bang 2017, Light Dom/Sub Undertones at the End, M/M, Mentioned Previous Cyberstalking, Mutual Pining, Tenga Products, alternate universe - host club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-09-30 06:58:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10156814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/counterheist/pseuds/counterheist
Summary: Or do you like moody Japanese men who look like closet perverts?





	

**Author's Note:**

> [With art by skom714!](http://artskom714.tumblr.com/post/158134712864/soft-boys-from-kixboxer-fic-part-of)
> 
> [Beta by tom.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/NotTheTomato/pseuds/NotTheTomato)

“Six-thirty and he’s not here yet, hm?” Chris says lightly to the air on his way back from picking up another bottle of champagne. He’s wearing a ridiculous red polyester shirt with black mesh panels on the sides. Viktor thought it was a decent choice that afternoon before opening – wrinkle resistant, attention-getting, reasonably breathable – but right now he would set it on fire if he could. He would set it on fire with Chris still wearing it and let it burn for a little before spraying Chris in the face with the fire extinguisher.

None of this shows in his expression.

“It’s the season,” he also says lightly to the air. Chris has already moved past him to the next enclave, but Viktor is certain he’s been heard.

“The season?”

The starry-eyed young woman sitting in the booth across from Viktor tips her head to the side and plays with the edge of her pink straw. Her drink is gone, as is her time, but it was still rude of Viktor to be thinking of someone else while sitting with her, so he lets her linger. Besides, Yuuri’s not here yet.

“Winter, of course, my dear. Don’t you think winter is a beautiful season?” Viktor shifts a hair closer to her in the booth. She’s designated him at least twice now, he knows, because he’s seen her wearing yellow before and she’s in orange today. But for the life of him he cannot remember her name. “I truly love the snow.”

She giggles at him, flushing, and Viktor has the sinking feeling her name has something to do with snow. Yuki. Yukiko? This is what he gets for letting himself get distracted. But it is Wednesday, and half past six, and Yuuri isn’t here yet.

None of this shows in his expression.

“Miss,” finally, Georgi approaches the table. He makes it look like a coincidence, but Viktor knows very little of what they do at Grand Prix is anything but purposeful, and that means – “May I have the absolute pleasure of walking you to your coat?”

Georgi takes her by the arm, and once they’re off and around the corner, Yurio rushes in to take away their glasses and the bottle she purchased for the table. “You’re a disgrace,” Yurio grouses low enough for none of the customers to hear, which in normal person speak means ‘I am jealous of your ability to hold on to her attention and wish to one day surpass you’. Or, at least, that is what Viktor likes to think. He stands, lets himself stretch, hears the tendons in his neck click and snap.

At 27, Viktor is the oldest host at Grand Prix. He is also the most popular by far. His face is the largest on their advertisements, and the price to have a glass of juice with him is the highest. Sometimes Yakov calls him the prize of the Grand Prix, usually on Saturday nights when the club is at its busiest. The rest of the time Yakov calls him names that Viktor knows, objectively, he deserves. _Arrogant, ungrateful, Vitya_. After the five years he’s been under Yakov’s employ, Viktor treats them all like the endearments they equally are.

Yurio leaves in a flurry of mumbled curses, smelling like dish soap and stale soda.

Viktor claps his hands together and straightens the edges of his rolled-up cuffs. If he looked down he would be able to see his face on the gleaming surface of his imported shoes. He is wearing charcoal wool today to offset his skin and hair, and black twill. He knows he looks good. But he can’t stop fidgeting with his cuffs, not until he hears the clack of Georgi’s returning footsteps rising through the lightly piped jazz piano and casual chatter that fills the club.

Georgi returns to view. And behind him, Yuuri.

* * *

“What a cute little salaryman,” Chris said the first time Yuuri walked into Grand Prix two years before. “This one’s mine.”

Viktor didn’t care one way or the other about it, except for the light feeling of competition that always sang in his veins when he and Chris talked about customers like tally marks. Most of Viktor’s customers were women because most of Grand Prix’s patrons were women, but over half of Chris’s customers were men. Logically it fit for Yuuri to choose Chris - on probability if nothing else - so Viktor went back to his business at the crowded table where he was just wrapping up judging a drinking competition.

But then Yuuri chose Viktor.

That’s something Viktor thinks about a lot over the next two years. Yuuri could have had anyone, but Yuuri chose _him_.

* * *

“You gave me quite a scare today, Yuuri,” Viktor hesitates his hand over the little pot of cream Emil brought with his drink. “I thought you might not come for me.”

Yuuri goes red and looks away, down into the murky depths of Viktor’s coffee across the table. He stares at the clouds of cream Viktor pours into his cup with an unmatched intensity as the light and dark mix and swirl. Viktor’s shifts end around 2AM, and since Yuuri learned that he always buys Viktor something caffeinated to drink during their meetings. It’s a little thing, but it’s touching. For himself he usually gets juice, or seltzer water. Never any alcohol. Tea on his rare weekend visits, coffee on days when he looks so tired Viktor wants to gather him up and just let him sleep in a pile of cushions for their hour.

Today is a coffee day for them both. What’s in Yuuri’s cup looks like a cross between a cow and a swamp monster – junior hosts always perform the background tasks, and Yurio has been learning latte animals from Emil. Viktor has no idea whether or not the sad foam art is intentional. Yurio has been particular about Yuuri for some time, ever since a customer gave him his nickname and it stuck and Yuuri stayed Yuuri. Viktor’s Yuuri.

“My route took longer today,” Yuuri says after an extended pause. He picks up his cup and holds it to his lips, blows across the surface. His lips are always, always chapped, and if it weren’t for the no touching rule at Grand Prix Viktor would do something about that immediately. “People buy a lot of gifts.”

Or he could buy lip balm for Yuuri as a gift! It is a wonderful idea, Viktor thinks, until he remembers he’s tried that before. Yuuri does not accept gifts, just like Yuuri does not appear on Tuesdays or Thursdays, just like Yuuri does not leave any contact information behind.

“People love to show each other their love on Valentine’s Day,” Viktor says instead of offering something Yuuri will not take. “Don’t you find it romantic?”

“My shoes got soaked in the rain,” Yuuri murmurs, taking a slow sip. He peeks up at Viktor for an entire two seconds. “Gifts are more romantic in person.”

“I agree,” Viktor says, for lack of the ability to say anything else.

Yuuri finishes his coffee slowly, and Viktor follows his lead. Some hosts drink quickly to get their customers to buy more: commissions are proportional to purchases, and a host’s salary isn’t that great on its own. Viktor hasn’t needed to use that trick since his first year at Grand Prix and refuses to use it with Yuuri, even though Yakov keeps telling him to get Yuuri to spend more. But Yuuri has patterns, and one of them is to only buy one drink. Viktor couldn’t ask any more from him, so Viktor’s hourly intake suffers on the nights when Yuuri visits him. He is so far from caring it’s laughable. The other hosts have actually laughed at him.

Once, Yuuri bought a slice of cake, and Viktor got to watch him eat it. He asked for the security camera footage after because he is only a man and men are weak. Come to think, it was around that time when Yurio stopped treating Viktor with respect.

“And will you be spending Valentine’s Day with your dog again, Yuuri?”

“Mmmm,” Yuuri hums, and it could be agreement or it could be the coffee warming Yuuri from the inside out.

Being with Yuuri warms Viktor from the inside out.

The hour ends too quickly.

* * *

Yuuri visits Grand Prix three times per week: Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Sometimes he comes in on weekends, but those visits are more rare, which means Viktor drops everything he’s doing when they do happen. Yuuri always comes to the door wearing a bulky tan jacket and a white mask, always between six and six-thirty, unless it is a particularly heavy mail season.

Yuuri works for Japan Post.

He is very clean, and quiet, and reserved. He seems like a hard worker and a calm soul.

He owns a miniature poodle. He likes video games. He lives alone.

He is actually filthier than Viktor and Chris put together.

* * *

It starts as a game. Viktor has spent too much time around Chris, and Chris’s second language is euphemisms, even before Japanese, even before _English_.

The third or fourth time Yuuri visits, and picks Viktor, Viktor stops being distant and delicate. He begins an active campaign to make Yuuri blush as much as possible because Yuuri looks like the kind of repressed salaryman who secretly wants a bit of fabulous embarrassment in his life. Viktor is fine with being someone’s secret fabulous embarrassment; if he weren’t, he wouldn’t have stayed in Tokyo for so long, and he never would have accepted the offer to work for Yakov.

And Yuuri does blush, and squirm, and stammer, but Viktor quickly learns that while he’s achieving the expected results, it’s not for the expected reasons.

“Here to seduce me again?” Viktor asks one evening. It’s fairly early for Viktor’s usual routine, but a bachelor party came through at opening on their first of many stops, and he had to miss his first break. He is hungry, his leg itches, and he just wants to go home. But he plasters his signature smile onto his face and does his best to power through. Yuuri is not his favorite customer yet – he doesn’t have a favorite customer yet – so their time together still feels like work.

“No,” Yuuri replies. He only purchased sparkling water today, which is a pain for Viktor. “Of course not.”

“Of… course not?” Viktor tilts his head, makes it playful at the last second. “Isn’t that what you want, Yuuri, to seduce me?”

“I’d rather tie you up,” Yuuri says, matter of fact.

Because of his strange whirlwind of a life, it’s not the first time Viktor has heard those exact same words aimed at him. It’s not even the first time he’s heard those words at Grand Prix, where he is supposedly the elegant prince type customers want to bow down in front of and not the other way around. But it’s the first time those words have been said in a way or by a person that makes Viktor stop and consider. What if. What would it be like?

Viktor continues to play, after that, but suddenly the game is very different.

* * *

“Do you ever get jealous, Yuuri? Of so many other people taking up my time?”

“Of course not,” Yuuri says.

Always ‘of course’, as though there is a rule book out there Yuuri has read and Viktor has neglected. He’d read it if he could find it. He’d memorize it if it would teach him to understand how Yuuri thinks. Without it he stumbles through the dark and keeps falling, falling.

* * *

Some hosts live with their customers; Viktor never has. Emil has been sharing an apartment in Jinbocho with the same mousy woman for the entire time Viktor has known him. Chris has to use Viktor’s condo as his permanent address because he finishes men faster than he finishes cartons of milk. They all escaped from the dormitory Yakov provides beds in as soon as they possibly could. Most to the arms of their favorite customer, Viktor to the arms of a pristine condo in Jingumae with good security and enough room for one man and one dog. It’s not that he discourages visitors exactly, but he prefers to have his own space. And he wouldn’t want to upset Makkachin.

Yuuri doesn’t talk about where he lives, exactly, though Viktor assumes it’s on the cheaper side. He learns it’s large enough for Yuuri’s dog, who is nearly as cute as Makkachin, but small enough Yuuri can touch three of the four walls in his bedroom while sitting on the bed.

It’s a detail Viktor commits to heart.

Most of their meetings are spent with Viktor talking and Yuuri listening. This is less common in Viktor’s experience; most customers want someone to listen to them. Viktor can give the appearance of a good listener, even if he isn’t one by nature, and it must work well because Yakov hasn’t fired him yet. But some customers just want someone next to them, and even in a low-risk situation cannot find their own words. Viktor thinks Yuuri is one of these customers. It makes what he does learn about Yuuri feel more special.

When Viktor lies awake at night staring at the shadows and colors from the outside world creeping and shifting on his ceiling, he thinks about what he knows about Yuuri. Sometimes he makes up what he doesn’t know. Sometimes Yuuri is a famous antisocial film director, and sometimes he’s a young father drowning in a life he never wanted. Mostly he’s an awkward, repressed delivery worker who wants to tie Viktor up, but has yet to do it.

Sometimes at night Viktor thinks about writing himself a letter. He’ll send it to his condo, but he’ll address it to Yuuri and somehow Yuuri will see it. One of his – Viktor checks his phone, hesitates, continues to fantasize – _100,000_ coworkers will see it, and they’ll know that it’s meant for Viktor’s Yuuri even though there is no last name written and the address is unfamiliar. Yuuri will get Viktor’s letter, and he will be overcome, and he will read it. He will keep the letter in a pocket next to his heart, and he will know where Viktor lives. Viktor doesn’t know what he would write in the letter, but it’s something he can’t stop thinking about.

“He could at least let me text him,” he mutters into Makkachin’s fluff. “I could buy him a data plan if it’s too expensive.”

Makkachin sighs in agreement. Or, perhaps, in his sleep.

_3:16 AM_ , the clock projects onto the wall, _3:17 AM_.

* * *

That’s not how it happens.

* * *

By necessity Makkachin has to spend most evenings alone, so Viktor makes it up to him during the day. They watch gameshows together on the couch, or Viktor reads aloud, or they wander the city. Yoyogi Park is wide and close so it’s a favorite place to run for the both of them.

It happens one Tuesday, after a run.

Makkachin can explore by himself in parts of the park, but as soon as they leave it he has to go back on his leash. This is one of the few arguments between them that Viktor actually wins. Makkachin always leads the way home after a trip to the park, while Viktor thinks about how thirsty he is, and how he should have brought water with him, and how he wants a smoothie, and how he could buy a smoothie, but his favorite place to go is on the other side of his apartment, and how once he gets home he’ll just get himself some cold tea from the refrigerator and spend a few hours on Instagram.

Viktor walks, and thinks about the merits of smoothies, and Makkachin leads, and thinks about the things dogs must think about. Rabbits, maybe, and the singing competition they watched that morning. When they get back to their building there is a bright red Japan Post scooter sitting outside. Viktor thinks about Yuuri for a fleeting second, and then back to what he’d like to drink.

There is a bank of chrome-faced mailboxes in the lobby of Viktor’s building, and he usually only checks for the previous day’s post after lunch. Today he is a little early, and it seems the letter carrier is too. He’s shorter than Viktor, and his jacket fits well enough, but the way he stands makes it seem like he wishes it didn’t. One of his hands pulls at his sleeve while the other places letters into the unlocked mailboxes. A navy blue cap with red lettering covers most of his face until he looks over to the doors when Makkachin and Viktor enter through them.

His glasses have blue frames and that’s what Viktor recognizes first.

“Yuuri?” he says, because he might be in a uniform, but that is definitely Viktor’s Yuuri, with the soft cheeks and the brown eyes and the world stopping when Viktor wants to breathe. If Viktor had really gone to get a smoothie he would have dropped it now and then there would be a mess all over the lobby floor.

“Fuck,” Yuuri breathes.

Viktor has heard Yuuri say plenty of vulgar things. Sometimes Yuuri gets to a place that is both laser-focus and zoned out all at the same time, and it’s then when he says things like “I want to tie you up” or “I would fuck you in the dark so I could focus on the way you smell”. He’s never before sounded like he’s gasping out a stolen orgasm in a public bathroom, but that’s what this sounded like, and Viktor knows what he’s going to be thinking about tonight at 3:17 AM. And tomorrow at 3:17 AM. Possibly Viktor is dying. Possibly he has already died.

Yuuri looks like he wishes he were dead. “I have to…” he mumbles, trails off.

And then he’s pushing past Viktor and Makkachin, and out the only exit. He gets on his scooter and races away, turning at the end of the block. Viktor follows him with his eyes for as long as he can. Yuuri’s uniform pants are more snug than what he wears to Grand Prix. Viktor wonders if Yuuri would consider changing his stance on roleplay – “Of course not. I wear that to work! My coworkers wear that to work!” – before it catches up to him that this is the first time he’s ever seen Yuuri outside of the club.

Viktor could have touched Yuuri just now without breaking the rules. He could have given Yuuri his number, or at least made sure Yuuri knew which condo is Viktor’s and what the code for the spare key lock box is.

He’ll tell Yuuri the next time he sees him. Tomorrow. They have reached a turning point, and Viktor can’t wait anymore.

* * *

Six-thirty comes, and passes.

Seven comes, and passes.

Yuuri doesn’t show at Grand Prix that Wednesday night. He doesn’t show on Friday either.

Late on Friday night Viktor finds himself sandwiched between two hostesses who work at the neighboring Trophy NHK Club. The hostesses often visit Grand Prix after their shifts are done. Sometimes hosts and hostesses date, but Viktor thinks it’s more about relaxing around someone you can relate to. Or maybe paid conversation is the only kind any of them know how to have, anymore.

The hostess on his left jabs him in the side with her finger. “Vitya,” she growls, half-drunk and working her way through a speech meant to rouse him. “You! You are a _shithead_.”

“Thank you, Mila,” Viktor says primly. The hot chocolate she bought him at midnight has gone waxy and cold. He thinks the foam animal on its surface was supposed to have been a bear making an obscene gesture. He’s proud of Yurio for how much he’s improved.

“Shut up!” she says. Next to her Sara, another Trophy NHK hostess, bites her lower lip and fails to hold in her laughter. Viktor doesn’t think Sara is drunk, but maybe she just holds her liquor better than Mila does.

She pats Viktor on the shoulder. “Mila means you should take action!” Sara taps her forehead against him next. Viktor can feel her laughter now, a thumping buzz against his whole arm. Normally he finds other people’s emotions infectious, but it is Friday, and he hasn’t seen Yuuri since Tuesday, and possibly his world is collapsing in on itself. He’s seen Yuuri at least three times a week, every week, for over two years. What if Yuuri _doesn’t come back_ _?_ “You should track him down, and then confront him, and it’ll be just like a movie.”

“A movie!” Mila choruses. “Vitya, you shouldn’t just wait for other people to happen to you!” She punches him.

It _hurts_.

Throwing her arms into the air she shouts, “Another round of hot chocolate for The King of Sulk!” and if she weren’t one of Lilia’s girls Georgi would have been by to bundle her out the door long ago. That, and if she couldn’t bundle Georgi out instead if he tried it. “And another round of beer for me! I spent too long tonight leaning just so—” she demonstrates. Viktor might appreciate her form if he weren’t too busy staring at the spot where Yuuri usually sits and wishing he were there, what if he doesn’t, “—to horny! Businessmen! But now I get to have fun!”

Sara stands and pulls Mila up with her. Viktor thinks they’re leaving, everyone leaves, Yuuri left, and then his arm is being wrenched from its socket and he’s almost falling into the table as Mila pulls him along in their wake.

“That’s it,” Sara says, “We’re going to dance and no one is going to mope! Mila and I are young, and you’re almost as young as we are,” did Yuuri stay away because he realized how old Viktor has become? That he’s almost thirty? That he might as well be a creaking old man?! “And I think my brother finally went home so we are going to dance and have a good time, and while we’re dancing you can tell us all about your Yuuri and we’ll give you advice tomorrow when Mila is sober.”

Mila nods, and pulls them both towards the lighted dance floor near the windows. “Marry him and bring him back to Russia with you!” is her sage advice.

* * *

Mila’s advice the next morning, when she stops by to visit and to return the coat she stole from Viktor’s locker the night before, is, “Maybe don’t start with marrying him and taking him back to Russia.” She gives Makkachin a pat and a treat from Viktor’s coat pocket. “Ask him about his hobbies.”

“I have to find him first,” Viktor says, but he says it to her face and not to the ceiling in despair. “What if I don’t?”

“You will,” she says, like she knows something Viktor doesn’t. “How many customers have you had for that long? How many of them left on their own and not because of money troubles, or Yakov, or you pushing them towards someone else?”

Viktor doesn’t know. He can’t remember most of them.

* * *

Mila is right. Of course Mila is right.

On Monday at three minutes past six, Georgi walks quickly up to Viktor’s table. He places his hands on both of Viktor’s shoulders, kisses Viktor once on each cheek and whispers, “Believe in the power of love,” before hurrying back where he came from. This is odd behavior, but not necessarily for Georgi, so Viktor dismisses it. Maybe Georgi has a new girlfriend. Maybe the only time Georgi can hold on to love is when Viktor can’t.

Georgi comes back shortly, but this time he’s got a customer with him.

“Yuuri!” Viktor jumps up from his seat, doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Yuuri hasn’t taken his mask off yet, or his scarf, or his coat, and his glasses are fogged, and Viktor can barely see any of him, but it’s still the most beautiful sight in all of creation.

Yuuri takes his customary seat. Georgi winks at Viktor before he wanders off to wherever he goes when he’s not leading customers to Viktor. Viktor forgets to sit until Yurio passes by and shoves him.

“On the house,” Yurio manages not to grumble. He sets a pot of tea down on the table between them, along with two slices of chiffon cake and two porcelain cups. “Don’t fuck this up,” he says to Viktor in Russian before he walks briskly away, apron strings swaying after him.

It’s awkward once Yurio leaves. Steam rises slowly from their cups after Viktor pours their tea, and Yuuri lowers his mask and unwinds his scarf, but the air between them is different from how it normally is. Viktor is tense. Yuuri is always tense, but Viktor isn’t, and that is how they fit together. Wherever Yuuri is Viktor will cross the distance to find him. But what if Yuuri regrets his time at Grand Prix now that he’s seen Viktor out of his thousand euro suits and in his jogging sweats that are covered in stains and fuzz? What if all Yuuri wanted was the illusion?

Viktor is startled out of his slumping sliding thoughts when Yuuri exhales loudly and slams his fists on the table. Their cups rattle.

But then – Yuuri bows so low his nose almost hits the edge of the table. His bangs flutter against its top. “I’m sorry,” he says. Viktor has no idea why, unless it’s an apology for missing their meetings for almost an entire week. If that’s what it is, well, Yuuri should know Viktor couldn’t stay mad at him if he tried. “I didn’t do it on purpose, I promise. I. I’ll switch routes!”

Oh. He’s talking about Tuesday. Is that all? How does Yuuri not know that’s all Viktor has wanted for ages?

Yuuri’s still bowing, but Viktor needs to look at him, and more than that needs to have Yuuri look back. He needs to see that Yuuri understands what Viktor’s only just chosen to say. “You’ve been keeping me waiting for so long I should call you Aeroflot,” Viktor tips Yuuri’s chin up with one long finger. He’s broken so many rules in his five years at Grand Prix it’s a wonder he’s bothered to hold on to this one. When he feels how warm Yuuri’s skin is, he thinks about how he could have known this feeling for _years_ , if only he hadn’t waited for it. Mila was right, he thinks. And then he says, in near violation of Mila’s advice, “Can I go home with you?”

* * *

Yuuri makes an odd gurgle, says “ _Oh my God_.” But then he says, “…yes,” and feels just as surprised as Viktor looks.

He finishes his piece of cake, and Viktor’s too, even though he isn’t hungry at all. He washes them down with the smooth black tea Viktor keeps pouring for him, even though he feels like he’s going to be sick. Yuuri doesn’t last the full hour, but Viktor doesn’t seem to mind. He chatters up a storm, but Yuuri doesn’t hear a word of it because Viktor also spends the entire time finding some excuse to touch Yuuri. He wipes cream from the corner of Yuuri’s lips _seven_ times, even long after the cake is all gone.

“I’m going to. I’ll wait for you,” Yuuri says. He has twin degrees in music theory and Japanese composition. He writes all the promotional information for the family inn’s website. Sometimes he anonymously edits fanfiction on the internet. He can barely string a sentence together while Viktor strokes the back of his hand.

Viktor tells him to come back at 2AM, not that he needed to specify. Yuuri’s had the opening hours of Grand Prix memorized since the first time he walked by their building and Georgi handed him a flyer with Viktor’s face on it. He still has that flyer on the side table next to his bed. He keeps it propped up next to the framed photo of his graduation day picture with Yuuko and Takeshi and his parents. That’s not weird.

…Is that weird?

Yuuri flees past his table and then past the front desk and Georgi– Georgi who claps his hands and says it was on the house, congratulations! Georgi who starts to cry. Yuuri contemplates strangling himself with his scarf as he puts it on. Not really. If he dies he’ll disappoint his parents. He also won’t be able to walk home next to Viktor later. It’s going to be anguish, doing that, but Yuuri can’t stop wanting it.

Heading home, Yuuri fists his hands in his pockets and thinks. He’s got eight hours, or so. That’s a lot of time. Enough time to go home and shower, and clean his apartment, and hide his posters and figurines and the dating sim discs stacked up next to his computer, and his Polygon 3D, and his Spiral 3D, and definitely the _pillows_ , and then he can shower again and have enough time left over to have a moderate mental breakdown.

Or should he get supplies?

What supplies?

Is Viktor asking to have sex with him? Is that what he meant by asking to go home with Yuuri? A lot of hosts do that: tell their customers they’re dating and act cute with them, and fuck them, and then mooch off them until they leave them. Yuuri went to a couple other clubs after his interest was first perked by Viktor, so he’s seen a bit of what that life is like. Just to be sure. He didn’t go back to any one person after more than one or two meetings, because it wasn’t what he wanted. They weren’t who he wanted.

Does Viktor want to have sex with Yuuri and then mooch off him and then leave him?

Yuuri’s never—

His train arrives. He steps on, mechanically, and takes a seat close to the doors. His apartment is further out in a cheaper area, just about as far as he can get from the main post branch while not forcing him to get up obscenely early in the morning for work. Yuuri adjusts his mask and hunches over. No one on the train looks at him. He’s just another single man on his single way, living his small single life.

He’s never had sex with another person before.

To be honest, he’s never wanted to.

Characters in games are designed to be specifically arousing and sometimes that works for him. So he tries copy after copy, but more often than not he has to scrub his mind and get a Tenga egg, and think about nothing but what he’s feeling. A year and a half ago he started thinking about Viktor. He stopped feeling guilty about it a year ago.

Viktor can’t possibly think Yuuri’s good at sex, but what if he has high standards anyway?

Maybe Yuuri should do both: clear away the evidence at his apartment and purchase supplies.

What kinds of things do you need to have sex with another person?

He already has his favorite lube, but it’s only the kind that gets the job done and is reasonably priced in bulk. It doesn’t have a special smell, or taste. And he has a big box of condoms too because they make cleaning up easier, and he’s got four separate kinds of masturbation aids from Tenga – he would be completely satisfied to just watch Viktor using them – but that would be weird, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t Viktor expect him to participate? Or would he be relieved if Yuuri didn’t touch him?

Viktor is beautiful, and worldly, and bright, and Yuuri pays money to regularly talk to him. Nothing about their relationship is normal. Of course it’s not.

Plus, Yuuri’s only ever bought supplies off the internet, and he can’t expect a same day delivery after business hours are over. Even if he went to a random Lawson on the other side of the city from his apartment, he would burst into flames and die once he got to the checkout.

No supplies.

Maybe Viktor only wants to talk, anyway.

Yuuri’s train reaches his station. He mechanically rises from his seat and joins the small stream of people from the train, to the turnstiles, and out onto the street. The sky is fairly dark already, and he hurries off in his own direction.

He’s never taken another person back to his apartment before.

He hopes his landlady doesn’t find out about it.

* * *

Viktor goes about the rest of his evening in a state of bliss until about five minutes before 2AM when he realizes there is no guarantee Yuuri will return for him. He frets about it internally, deeply, until he steps outside and sees Yuuri leaning against a light post. He’s tapping at some kind of small black game device. Viktor didn’t realize people still used those.

He tries to stand in front of Yuuri until Yuuri notices him, but Yuuri looks up after a beat and slides his game swiftly into his pocket. He stares at Viktor for a long moment and then hunches his shoulders and mutters something about making the last train.

They don’t make eye contact after they leave the station as Yuuri leads them through his neighborhood and back to his home. Or to – he could be taking Viktor anywhere. The area they’re in is certainly residential, but it isn’t familiar to Viktor. Yuuri doesn’t seem like a murderer, but don’t they always say that on crime shows? ‘He always seemed so normal’ or ‘I never thought he would do that’? Viktor should be more concerned that Yuuri is going to murder him. They’ve spent so much time together, but so little of that time has been outside of Grand Prix. Viktor should be more careful.

“It’s just up here,” Yuuri says to the pavement.

Viktor should be more careful, but what he is actually is terribly curious.

What kind of building does Yuuri live in? What kind of things does he have in his home? Viktor knows Yuuri sends most of his money back to his parents in Kyushu, and that he has enough left over to visit Grand Prix even if he only spends the bare minimum on drinks and Viktor’s time. He’s seen pictures of Yuuri’s dog, but doesn’t know his name.

Yuuri has an entire life separate from Viktor, and Viktor finds that unacceptable.

The apartment building Yuuri eventually stops in front of is surrounded by a brick wall. In between the wall and the building are two forlorn trees and a small strip of grass. Viktor has a small park on the top of his high rise and he lets Makkachin wander there for hours and hours during the day. Perhaps Yuuri will bring his dog over some day to play with Makkachin. Viktor would like that; he thinks Makkachin would too.

He follows Yuuri up the walk and through the front entryway. The code Yuuri punches in on the faded grey box next to the door isn’t very secure – _1 3 2 4, really?_ – but it’s easy for Viktor to memorize so in the end he doesn’t mind at all. There is immediately a flight of stairs to their right, and a beat-up row of mailboxes underneath, but Yuuri walks quickly past them into a dim hallway. Viktor can faintly hear the noise from a television coming through the walls, indecipherable buzzing, but nothing else other than Yuuri’s footsteps and his own heart beating. He supposes it’s nearly three in the morning now. Probably he should be quiet out of respect for Yuuri’s neighbors.

‘Quiet, you,’ he tells his heart. It does not listen to him. He can’t blame it.

And then a door to his left opens in one fast, creaky pull. Yuuri jumps a full meter in the air; Viktor is surprised when he doesn’t hit his head on the ceiling. The television noise gets a little louder.

“Ehhh?” A woman sticks her head out of the doorway. She’s wearing relaxation clothes from a brand Viktor recognizes, likes to buy for himself. Her hair is pulled back and she’s got a mud mask on. Her left hand is holding a tall bottle of plum wine by the neck. Odd, Viktor thought that brand only made soy sauce. Maybe he’s reading it incorrectly? His spoken Japanese is very good after five years in the country, but he still has trouble reading kanji.

Before he can ask Yuuri for help, Yuuri whisper-screams, “M-Miss Okukawa! If I woke you up I’m sorry, we’ll just go quickly.”

“Yuuri?” Miss Okukawa drawls. She looks back and forth between Yuuri and Viktor, then looks Viktor up and down twice. He feels as though he’s undergone an airport scan by the time she’s done with him and turns back to Yuuri. He doesn’t know whether he’s going to be pulled aside for questioning or not. “No, no, I was still awake. It’s not like you to be out so late, Yuu-Yuu.” Yuuri flinches. Viktor grins sharply.

“Right,” Yuuri says. “My friend needed. I was at. He had a thing. You see.” He stops, mercifully. It’s terrible, but Viktor wishes he would keep going.

“Your _friend_ , huh?” Miss Okukawa asks. Her eyes flick back to Viktor for half a second. He suddenly feels dirty, standing fully-clothed in a dark hallway, and he’s not sure he likes it. Is this the feeling Yuuri has, right now, that’s getting him so worked up? Is this embarrassment? “Good for you, Yuuri. _Ri-ri_. For bringing a _friend_ back here. For once! I’m proud of you,” she hiccups, voice going reedy and fond, “be as loud as you want, okay? Auntie Minako will deal with any trouble.” She pats the side of her own cheek with her bottle, glares at Viktor, and then twirls back behind her door.

It shuts firmly behind her.

The television volume increases, just so.

When Viktor turns to see Yuuri’s reaction he is slightly hunched over, leaning with his forehead against the mailboxes. He’s muttering something to himself, and it sounds like, “Why, why, why?”

Well then, Viktor will have none of _that_. “You were taking me somewhere?” he asks.

“Right,” Yuuri sighs. “Right.”

They continue to walk until they reach the very last door at the end of the hall, on the right. Yuuri fumbles with his keys trying to get them in the lock. Viktor thinks it would all be a lot easier if they turned on a light.

“It’s not much,” Yuuri says once he’s finally got the door open, the apartment behind it dark and still. “Just. Yeah.”

“I’m sure it’s wonderful,” Viktor says, stepping past Yuuri. And when Yuuri flips the light switch up it is. There’s a little kitchen area to the left, all white tiles and tin cans. Behind it is an overstuffed couch with a low table in front and a television on the wall across. On the other side of the couch is a bike and then a wall. Yuuri wasn’t kidding when he said his apartment was small.

Viktor’s just about to snoop in one of the two closed doors – bathroom and bedroom? – when he hears a soft whuffle and whine from below.

“Sorry, Vicchan,” Yuuri shushes, picking up the littlest ball of fluff Viktor’s only seen in pictures before. “We tried not to wake you.” This must be Yuuri’s dog, Viktor realizes, and he thrusts his arms out in a way he only registers as rude after he’s already had Vicchan transferred to his arms. Vicchan nuzzles sleepily at Viktor’s chest. Ah, yes. Makkachin will love playing in the garden with such a precious pup. Vicchan is a good… name?

“Yuuri?” Viktor asks calmly. Yuuri turns to him after shutting the door and locking all three bolts on it. He took off his mask at some point, but he’s still wearing his scarf and coat. “How old is Vicchan?”

“Just under three years,” Yuuri replies.

Viktor hums, flushes. Just under three years sounds about right.

* * *

“So,” Viktor says from his seat on Yuuri’s desk chair. “Have you always had my building on your delivery route, Yuuri?” He swivels slowly from one side to the other. From his seat on the bed, Yuuri looks very carefully down at the dog snoozing in his lap. “And ah, if you’d like I can give you a better picture of me.” He points to Yuuri’s bedside table and the flyer he almost didn’t notice, and watches Yuuri go white as snow.

“That’s. No. That’s not. I can explain?”

Viktor bites his lower lip and nods. He would like nothing more than to hear Yuuri talk about Viktor being the last thing he sees every night and the first thing he sees every morning.

Yuuri doesn’t, the minx. “I didn’t know that was your building and I usually do deliver to the Yoyogi area,” he says, lightly playing with Vicchan’s fur. “But a coworker of mine got in an accident so I agreed to be part of a group to cover his route while he recovers. I didn’t stalk you, Viktor,” he says, looking up. His eyes are wide and sincere until something else overcomes them. Shame? Fear? “I mean. I never looked up any of your personal information. _I mean._ ”

_‘I didn’t stalk you, Viktor.’_

_Vicchan._

Viktor doesn’t go by Viktor at Grand Prix. None of the hosts go by their real names, except for Chris who doesn’t care if a customer stalks him anyway. Chris barely has any concept of privacy. Viktor does. He’s always gone by Andrei at the club – if they made him read Tolstoy in secondary school he was going to get _some_ use out of it – and there have never been any problems. No customers have ever crossed the barrier into the other side of his life; except, it seems, for Yuuri. Yuuri, who has a picture of Viktor next to his bed. Yuuri, who named his dog after Viktor. Yuuri, who doesn’t stay out this late, who cares about the people he works with, who Viktor thinks about at 3:17 AM.

“How did,” Viktor pauses, changes track, “when did you learn my name?”

“About two years ago.” Yuuri buries his face in Vicchan’s fur.

Now, now, none of that. Viktor stands up and flops himself next to Yuuri on the bed. There are several large suspicious lumps underneath the blankets. Viktor hopes to find out what they are at some point tonight. This morning. “And you didn’t tell me?! I could have been hearing you call out my actual name, and not just in my dreams, for two years! And you denied me that, really, Yuuri, you’re too cruel.”

He wraps his arms around Yuuri’s waist, presses his nose into Yuuri’s back, and _feels_ the tingle run up Yuuri’s spine.

“I have to,” Yuuri says, and then he’s standing, and then he and Vicchan are both gone. The front door creaks open, slams shut. Viktor waits, flummoxed. He is reasonably certain that the cyberstalked are usually the ones who get to storm off and not the cyberstalkers. Isn’t that how it goes? Should he feel more wounded? Is Yuuri storming off because he doesn’t like how Viktor isn’t getting upset at him? …Shouldn’t Yuuri have asked Viktor to leave if that were the case?

When Yuuri comes back a short moment later, he has a dazed expression and a perfect lipstick kiss mark on his right cheek. Vicchan isn’t with him. Viktor has pulled the blankets off Yuuri’s bed and is lying between two body pillows he forgot were ever made.

“Fuck,” Yuuri breathes, and it’s exactly like the last time.

Viktor tries to mimic the pose captured on the pillows, but it’s difficult with his shirt still on and his belt still buckled. The extremely smug expression he knows is on his face is also very inaccurate. “Dakimakura, Yuuri? Two?”

Yuuri opens his mouth. Shuts it. He’s down to a sweater and his pants. He isn’t even wearing any socks and it’s the least-clothed Viktor has ever seen him. “Bulk pricing,” he says.

“Do you sleep between them?”

“Yes,” Yuuri says it like a state secret. And then something in him breaks. Or strengthens. Maybe both. “Every night,” Yuuri continues, sitting down on the desk chair. Viktor props himself up on his elbows to maintain eye contact. He doesn’t want to look away. “I also have your official posters, and once I bought a shampoo you were in the advertisement for when you lived in France, and I listen to a recording of your junior concert from when you were still studying at the Saint Petersburg State Conservatory while I do the dishes.”

He says it all without apology and Viktor has never needed to unbuckle his pants with such urgency before. He’s getting off to Yuuri casually revealing his personal history, things no in Japan are supposed to know about. …Is that weird?

That’s not weird.

It’s wonderful.

Viktor carefully levers himself up and leans forward. “What did you want, bringing me here tonight?”

Yuuri licks his lips, fumbles with the hem of his sweater, and that’s enough.

* * *

They leave Yuuri’s desk lamp on because Yuuri doesn’t want to waste electricity, but he also wants to see Viktor’s face. He says just that, “I want to be able to see you.”

“Of course,” Viktor says.

He’s lying on his back in his undershirt and boxer briefs. If he turns to his left, two copies of his face will stare wantonly back at him. His clothes are neatly hanging in Yuuri’s tiny closet. Yuuri scolded him for leaving his socks bunched on the floor. He has never felt more aroused in his entire adult life.

“What do you…” Yuuri is kneeling at the very edge of the bed. He’s wearing a pair of grey sweatpants and a faded black shirt. He insisted on changing his clothes in the bathroom with the door closed. Viktor wants to kiss him. “What do you want?”

“I want to do what you want to do,” Viktor says immediately. “Yuuri?”

Yuuri reaches across to his desk and picks up a white helix attached to a black base. Viktor pays it the minimum amount of attention when the edge of Yuuri’s shirt rides up and he can see the skin underneath. Yuuri’s shirt relaxes back down when he holds the helix in front of him, and then points it at Viktor. “And if I want you to use this while I watch?”

The white helix has a hole in it. _Ah_. So that’s what it is. “Then I’ll give you a show.”

Yuuri covers the lower half of his face with the hand not holding his sex toy. The sex toy he offered Viktor, but has definitely used on himself before. Yuuri’s masturbatory aid he has almost certainly used on himself before while thinking about Viktor. He’s shaking a little, and Viktor might think he’s being laughed at if the enormous breath in and out Yuuri takes is not completely obvious.

He takes his own deep breath in sympathy, then another. He feels dizzy. He never wants this night to end. He never wants to go home, though someone has to feed Makkachin his breakfast at 8AM and then take him on his 9AM walk. Yuuri doesn’t have a clock in his bedroom, but it has to be past 4AM by now. Usually Viktor is finally falling asleep by now. Fuck. Yuuri’s breaths were in anticipation, but Viktor’s were yawns. Fuck, _fuck_.

Yuuri ruffles his own hair, sets his sex helix somewhere, and smiles. Viktor feels himself wind up that much more. If Yuuri doesn’t touch him soon he’s going to burst. Not burst. Die, probably. “You should get some rest,” Yuuri says. He is an awful, terrible man, and Viktor is pretty sure he wants to spend the rest of his life with him.

“Do you bring all your men back to your bed just to sleep?” Viktor jokes.

Yuuri frowns. “I don’t bring anybody here.”

“Good. Then I have you all to myself.” Viktor tries to stop another yawn, fails. “…I might be a little tired.”

“Me too.” Yuuri takes his phone out of his pocket and activates the screen. Swears quietly. “And I have work in four hours…”

Viktor sits. From this angle he can see the bulge in Yuuri’s lap and the bags underneath his eyes. “Ah! Then we have to sleep. That is,” Viktor has a sudden flash of paid conversation and meaningless sex, of Yuuri only seeing him on specific days for a specific purpose, “if I can stay.”

“You can use my toothbrush,” Yuuri says, putting a swift end to that. “First.” And then, “Don’t touch yourself.” Viktor goes into the bathroom, brushes his teeth, and doesn’t touch himself. He might spend the rest of his life with Yuuri, but the rest of his life isn’t going to be very long if Yuuri keeps saying these things to him.

Yuuri spends a little longer in the bathroom after Viktor finishes, and Viktor gets comfortable in Yuuri’s single bed while he waits. He holds one of the dakimakura under his arm and thinks about how he didn’t rinse the toothbrush out after he finished using it. He thinks about Yuuri knowing that. He thinks about a lot of things. He doesn’t touch himself.

“I’ve never slept with two of me before,” he says when Yuuri hurries under the covers after switching off the desk lamp. The slats on Yuuri’s window shade let slivers of light through from the streetlamps outside, but the room is still darker than Viktor’s bedroom at night.

“I have.”

They fuss, getting comfortable with too many bodies in too small a space. In the end, Viktor faces out towards the window on the opposite wall above Yuuri’s desk, and Yuuri faces him. Yuuri rests his head in the crook of Viktor’s neck and throws an arm over the small of Viktor’s back.

They breathe, and the night grows soft, and still.

“Stay with me,” Viktor whispers into Yuuri’s hair, after he’s sure Yuuri has fallen asleep. “I’m afraid of losing you.”

It takes a moment, and then the arm around his waist squeezes once, slips away. “Don’t be,” Yuuri says, sliding his hand between them.

* * *

Six o’clock rolls around and Yuuri is exactly on time. He’s wearing his bulky tan coat and an emerald green cashmere scarf Viktor gave him for no real reason other than that he likes giving Yuuri presents. Georgi walks next to Yuuri instead of in front of him when he brings him back to Viktor’s table, and he wipes a tear from his eyes when he leaves them.

“If I knew quitting was all I needed to do to get you to be on time, I would have quit much sooner,” Viktor says, pulling Yuuri in to sit next to him rather than across from him.

“I’m usually very punctual,” Yuuri grumbles while he winds the scarf from his neck and unbuttons his coat. He’s wearing a deep blue sweater Viktor gave him underneath.

“True, true,” Viktor agrees. “Except for all those times you make me wait for you.”

Yuuri coughs and Viktor puts a hand on his knee. He feels like champagne.

Yurio and Emil both bring by their drinks before Yuuri can order anything. Emil sets down a coffee with a foam pig on it for Yuuri, and mango juice with a little pink umbrella for Viktor. Yurio puts two slices of sponge cake and one fork in front of Viktor, and rolls his eyes before he stomps off. Viktor will get a proper send off from the rest of Grand Prix and some of the ladies from Trophy NHK tomorrow, but this is his last official day working at Grand Prix. Ending it all with a visit from Yuuri is proving to be too much for Viktor’s coworkers.

Picking up the fork, he carves a slice from the cake and hovers it in front of Yuuri’s mouth. “Do you think your parents will like me?” he asks nonchalantly.

“My parents like everyone,” Yuuri says, refusing to take the bite.

Viktor pokes him in the lips with the fork, lightly, until Yuuri concedes and allows Viktor to feed him.

“They’re already very pleased I asked to be transferred to Fukuoka,” Yuuri says later, after their drinks are halfway gone. “And since they know I’m dating someone, and that you’re coming with me, they’ve been over the moon.”

Viktor shrugs, and the arm he has slung around Yuuri makes Yuuri’s shoulders move a little too. “I can work anywhere,” he says, “but I can only exist if I’m near you.” It’s a line, and Yuuri steps on Viktor’s foot for it. Viktor holds him closer. Chris passes by with two customers and gives Viktor a wink and a thumbs up. Viktor returns them. “Besides, it will be better for our children to grow up near their grandparents.”

He expects Yuuri to spit out his drink, and babble, and turn bright cherry red. He expects to have a puddle of embarrassment to hold in his arms and protect from the world, but instead Yuuri surprises him. Of course he does.

“I want our children to grow up in Hasetsu, like I did,” Yuuri says. He brings his napkin to his lips and dabs at the corner of his mouth daintily, like the terror he is.

Yuuri’s time runs out quickly like it always does. But this time Yuuri lingers, and Viktor lets him, and it takes them fifteen extra minutes to untangle. By that time, Georgi has a near riot on his hands at the front desk with the women and men who desperately want to designate the famous and popular Andrei Bolkonsky on his very last evening as the star host of Grand Prix. Viktor takes his sweet time winding Yuuri’s scarf around his neck, rearranging it to his satisfaction. He mentally notes that he owes Georgi a much better birthday present this year.

“People will be looking at me,” Viktor says once he can no longer keep fussing with Yuuri’s clothes. Tonight as a host, in the future as an Instagram model if he takes up Chris’s suggestion. “But only you can have me.”

Yuuri looks up at him, up past his wire blue glasses frames, before reeling Viktor in by his tie. “Of course,” he says, simple as that. He places a light kiss on the edge of Viktor’s jaw and then releases him. “I’ll see you at home,” he says while he puts on his hat and walks away.

For lack of the ability to say anything else, Viktor waves at him. It’s not goodbye.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Imagine JJ is in the background of every host club scene. He’s worked there almost as long as Viktor has, but Viktor still doesn’t know who he is so he never gets a direct mention.
> 
> \- Viktor is a trust fund baby. He prefers jobs where people tell him how pretty he is.
> 
> \- Yuuri is physically somewhere in between canon Professional Athlete Yuuri, and canon Slub Failure End Me Yuuri. He does a decent amount of walking and stairs in his job as a letter carrier, but during his down time he’s nearly a shut in.
> 
> \- Mickey follows Sara to Grand Prix EVERY NIGHT and he buys time with Emil so he can sit and chaperone her from several tables over. Sara mostly follows Mila around to whatever host Mila wants to bother that night. Having multiple designated hosts is considered Bad Form, but Mila gets to do what she wants to do because she is her.
> 
> \- Minako knows exactly what Yuuri gets up to in his apartment, except for this instance where she _definitely_ thinks Yuuri has brought a prostitute home with him.


End file.
